


Interrobang

by Thelittle_lost_kitten



Series: Defined By Punctuation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Bottom John, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Feels, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Feels, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Smut, Kink, Language, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reichenbach Feels, Series, Sexual Content, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Top Sherlock, m/m - Freeform, sherlock bbc - Freeform, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelittle_lost_kitten/pseuds/Thelittle_lost_kitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a 26 year old John Watson enters the world yet again as a free man after a brutal war, falling helplessly into the hands of an intriguing individual; Sherlock Holmes. Soon John finds himself being helplessly smitten by his 24 year old counterpart. Here they enter a church to solve the case of the empty hearse (This was my own interpretation of the episode before i even watched season 3...) and John finds out that Sherlock knows what John thinks he doesn't know. Secrets revealed and locked up passion is spilled, Sherlock marks John as his own and its the beginning to a long relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrobang

**Author's Note:**

> Defined By Punctuation Series I
> 
> Love and kudos and hits and comments and stuff are all appreciated ^_^

Interrobang: Defined by Punctuation

 

“You’re a strange man Holmes… You know that, don’t you?”

 

A shrug of the shoulders and an exhalation of smoke was all that the shorter male got in response as Sherlock took another breath of the early summer and let out a cloud of nicotine and naphthalene.

 

“Interrobang.”

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock slid his eyes over to the doctor on his right and flicked the cigar he was smoking three feet away into a hole in the pale concrete pavement. John watched the joint hit the ground, coughing out black ash as it braces for impact.

 

“I said, I’m an Interrobang.”

 

A fluttering of an over-sized trench coat told John that the taller male had turned around and he looked up from his feet. He busied his lower lip with his teeth and looked into the light, silver-blue eyes of his junior, a fluttering heat growing in the pits of his stomach; one that was all too familiar to him, one that made his head spin and heart beat quicken.

 

“I’m assuming you are confused Watson. Shall I assurge your curiousity?”

 

Sherlock raised an elegantly trimmed brow, visably amused, long, spidery arms crossed across his broad chest. He tipped his head back, cheekbones high and dominant on his sharp and intelligent face.

 

“Interrobang, punctuation; an exclamation mark, followed by a question mark. Used at the end of a sentence to convey the speaker’s sense of shock and uncertainty. Not to be used with association to formal writing. Does that answer your question?”

 

John swallowed thickly as he took in the way Sherlock’s adam apple bobbed up when he talked, the way his messy, black bed-head contrasted with the shaved curve of his squared jawline. The twinkle in his eyes as he spoke, each word laced with careful thought and reasoning, revealing humbled intelligence and flaming charisma. The pale skin of his neck, exposed when the wind ruffled his polo collar and brought it an inch lower than where John found it appropriate to be. While he was fawning away, however, he failed to notice that the man standing before him had let out a bark of laughter and was doubling over, hand grasping John’s forearm. The heat that spread from that point of contact through the linen of John’s shirt was simply overwhelming, sending a wave of electric-like nerves up the small of his back, tingling in the flesh of his wrists, tapping away incessantly at the surface of his skin. He snapped out of his trance and he had to consciously close his mouth to keep himself from gaping.

 

“How did I know that was what you were thinking?”

 

John could only blink and nod dumbly, somewhat glad that Sherlock hadn’t noticed that he was starting. He tried his best to pull himself back together and instead stay focused on what Sherlock was saying, not the way he looked oh-so-sexy saying it. Oh God, did he just think that?

 

“Well John, let’s just say that after years of interrogating and investigation, you pick up a lot of observation skills and logical deduction techniques. And you my friend, to me, you look like you have a gigantic exclamation mark and question mark stamped on your forehead in red.”

 

The blonde man picked at the lint in his pockets and trailed behind Sherlock as he sauntered down the wet grass in front of the church, long legs gracefully striding through the long, uncut lawn. He sighed and shook those sinful thoughts out his head and stamped his feet on the wood of the porch, much like he was trying to release all of his frustrations. Well, emotional frustrations. The lanky man threw open the doors of the chapel rather disrespectfully and walked right in; Watson on the other hand stopped and washed his hands with holy water provided at the entrance, like the respectful young man he was. Quietly, he steps over to where Sherlock was standing, feet apart, eyes narrowed.

 

“It’s empty.”

 

“I am very much aware,”

 

The mild annoyance in the head detective’s voice was unmistakable and John knew better than to keep probing the younger. But, he just couldn’t help himself sometimes; he loved the way Sherlock’s deep baritone resounded throughout the quiet of the church. It made him feel so safe for some reason. John flicked his tongue across the perimeter of his lips and gazed down at the Corpseless Coffin, and wondered why the hell they needed to go to the church where they had placed the coffin after it was found empty. It was not the place of the crime, so how would it help the investigation of the case at all? His eyes flickered for just a millisecond, over to Mr. tall, dark and handsome. His eyes were set on the wooden container, lean arms hugging his frame. One hand was raised to stroke the non-existant beard on his chin, fingers ever so pale and long and thin. The creases on his forehead deepened; he seemed deep in thought. The younger man lets his thoughts wander wild, one thing slowly leading to another. He imagined those pianist-like fingers skittering down his sides, tugging down the hem of his boxers, caressing him gently, softly, warmly. That hot voice cooing in his ear, hot breath laden with soot, panting down his neck. Those long, graceful legs, tangling under the sheets with his, flat chest and smooth stomach pressed up against him only separated by a sheen of sweat-

 

“John.”

 

His doe eyes widened and his jaw went slack for a moment. Sherlock was towering over him, hips canted at an angle with one hand on his hipbone, elbows jutting out like a sore thumb. The faint shadows casted on his face by the light cascading through the tainted glass of the chapel only highlighted the smooth contours of his face, refining his high cheekbones and sharp eyes. Even with a scowl clearly etched on his face, he seemed to be the absolute personification of the word ‘sex’.

 

“Ye- Yeah?”

 

Smooth. Real smooth Watson. He smells your fear now.

 

Sherlock had thrown his morning coat over his shoulder and was tapping his foot insistently, lips pulled taut into a straight line. His collar had been dragged even more dangerously low, exposing a longer pale stripe of sinful flesh.

 

“What are you so, so ‘intrigued’ by? May I ask, do you see any clues near where I am standing.”

 

It was more of a statement than a question, and John could feel the tips of his ears get hot. His eyes quickly darted over to the grand piano in the background in his desperate attempt to gain some semblance, trying his best not to melt (or possibly faint) at the daggers Sherlock was shooting at him.

 

“Uh… Urm it’s just, that piano. It reminds me of home, that’s all…”

 

The detective’s gaze visibly softens and he watched as John scampered over to the piano and looked fondly at the keys. John silently congratulated himself for coming up with such a perfect excuse and lying without faltering. Now all he needed was to play along with this ridiculous act.

 

“Heh… Miss your parents, don’t you lad?”

 

John hears the sound of his clogs tapping on the hollow stage, coming closer, closer, closer. The lump of tension built up in John’s larynx and somehow, he was unable to form a coherent sentence. A meek nod in response and another lip-gnawing session, the flustered younger began to run his fingers across the black and white piano keys. He had done this absent-mindedly; as his mind on the other hand was completely focused on how many steps Sherlock was away from him, counting down step by step with the clacking resounding in the peaceful house of God.

 

“Clack.” Three. His heart jumped from its place in his chest up to his mouth.

 

“Clack.” Two. He began to tremble, his hand stopped running across the keys, hands unresponsive, mind simply refusing to function. The only thing that registered was-

 

“Clack.” One.

 

“Clack.” The closeness was inexplicable. Sherlock’s warm breath ghosted his neck as he whispered softly,

 

“You play?”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to skim his lovely fingers across the notes, arms reaching out from behind John to touch the glossy surfaces. His face was right next to John’s, long back hunched so that he was level with the young male. John almost forgot how to breathe, mind suddenly running like a blank tape. A prickling heat flushed his skin, that confusing warmth flooded his belly and he felt like he was partially deaf at that moment. Sherlock was just standing there, waiting patiently for him to say something and John didn’t know what to say anymore; his head was flooded with emotions that were all swelling up deep inside him. He daren’t turn around, eyes seemingly intent on watching Sherlock press down on the keys, knuckles arched, boney fingers striking a simple tune.

 

“Edelweiss, Edelweiss… Every morning you greet me…”

 

He breathed out, pauses between each break in the song dragging painfully longer than John preferred for hot breath across his skin. The notes were played crisp and clear, and his voice was just as so. John had to close his eyes, the heavy scent of his older counterpart intoxicating him with lust and overwhelming his entire being; soul, mind and heart. He heard Sherlock give another breathy chuckle and noticed that the taller male had pressed himself up behind him, knee pressing through the gap between John’s legs. John gave a small whimper and before he could even blink, a strong pair of arms had thrown him on the piano keys. The loud clang of John’s backside hitting the monochromatic keys was unceremonious, echoing down the halls. The shock and utter confusion which followed after that seemed to be the loudest thing that Sherlock had ever heard. His sioeyes bore deep and lustfully into John’s as he moulded their lips together in a heated kiss, one that was needy and hot. John felt tears sting his eyes as his shaking hands reached up to cup Sherlock’s handsome face, letting his thumbs run astray across the porcelain surface. Oh my, his inner thoughts, his dirty little crush on his closest friend. Revealed. Sherlock had seen him through, like a bullet through a hole in the wall. He had hit the bull’s-eye. Those large hands pressed down on the keys again, this time creating yet another loud and ear piercing clang on the low and high notes. He leaned back slightly, breaking their first kiss while keeping his gaze on John’s open eyes, spilling warm water from the sea. He gingerly pressed his thin lips under the corners of his partner’s eyes, kissing away the falling salt droplets, a small smile genuinely playing on his lips as he did so.

 

“How long did you think you could possibly keep this from me John?”

 

John remained silent as he mentally face-palmed himself. He was such an idiot, trying to hide a secret like this from the man who was known to deduce a person’s whole life story with a single glance.

 

“I- I…” A long, single digit was pushed onto his open mouth, making the older swallow his words.

 

“Shh. That was a rhetorical question… Don’t answer that.”

 

Deft fingers rose to John’s white button-up, undoing buttons and rolling the fabric down broad and shaking shoulders. John could only balk as his skin came into view, his chest heaving as he could only see the elder gently stroking his shaved chest with the tips of his fingers. They traced the lines on the plain of his stomach, making his breath catch in his throat. Sherlock. The Sherlock Holmes was touching him, feeling his body. John leaned back as Sherlock’s mouth latched onto the jut of his shoulder, sucking softly like a child with a pacifier. The callousness of his palms could be felt as he placed both his hands onto John’s chest, trying to soothe the quaking boy. Sherlock nipped at the protruding bone, teeth lightly grazing the smooth surface of the younger’s skin. John bit back a moan and placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, finding himself in the midst of all that was happening.

 

“She- Sherlock… Stop please, I can’t-”

 

A puzzled glance from the latter shut him right up.

 

“Oh hush now, your mind says one thing John, but your body a whole other.”

 

Another teeth crushing kiss which Sherlock dominated easily, over-sized hands already working on the buttons of John’s jeans. The articles of clothing were soon thrown into a pile in the corner of the room, to be forgotten till the end of their messy make-out session. John seemed to have gained back some of his lost sanity now and groaned quite shamelessly into Sherlock’s neck as he palmed him through his boxers. He could smell that scent, heavy with sandal wood and antiseptic, musty and heady, strong as ever. He did not dare to touch the younger quite honestly; to him, Sherlock was a god and he was simply unworthy. John felt his whole body go numb as his hard member pressed against the linen of his boxers, the want for the older simply mind numbing. What if this was going too fast, what if they were being watched, what if someone walked in and saw them?

 

“Shut up.” His voice was surprisingly stern; angry almost.

 

“I-I wasn’t saying anything.” Primal fear registered on John’s soft features at the seriousness of his junior’s tone.

 

“No one is here, it’s 2’o clock in the morning. Stop thinking so much, it’s pressurizing.”

 

Sherlock grinded his lower half against John’s and an explicit moan slipped through the former’s lips; John felt Sherlock, hard, big, and hot through his black khaki’s and he was a monster, just waiting to be set free. John bucked his hips, desperate for friction and wanting to hear Sherlock’s groans of pleasure. Sherlock caught on quick, like the genius he was, meeting John’s erratic thrusts, sound of pure ecstasy bubbling from their throats. Just the sound of Sherlock’s unbelievably deep and velvety groan made John’s already thumping heart skip a beat, hands pulling Sherlock closer and closer and his legs impatiently lodging him in between his thighs. Their kisses soon turned sloppy, mouths often missing each other. It was just the heat, that insatiable heat of the moment. John landed a wet kiss on Sherlock’s cheekbone and the other kisses him almost languidly on his jaw, the battle of inarticulateness almost reaching its much-anticipated climax. Sherlock paused to fling off his vest, leaving him in his almost too-tight long-sleeved polo. The purple fabric clung to his frame perfectly, outlining the gentle slopes and curves of his body. And as that was removed, John almost died spot on. Creamy white skin, contrasting with the dark of his ruffled hair, all he needed was a pair of wings to look like a fucking fallen angel, cast down from heaven for being too hot, or something along the lines of that. Next came the work pants, sliding off like paint from a brush in water, pooling at the detective’s feet after he had kicked off his shoes. John’s eyes raked the figure before him, for never had he once saw something just as perfect stand before him. John made a quick note that if he ever found a real job like an artist or something, Sherlock would most definitely be his model. The piano screeched loudly again, Sherlock’s finger hooked under John’s chin as he lifted his face to meet his gaze.

 

“My face is up here, love.”

 

This time, there was a spark of excitement tinting his glistening blue eyes, a toothy smile breaking across his calm and cool exterior. John felt an uncontrollable blush run from the tip of his ears all the way to the base of his neck and his palms grew moist in anticipation. Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on the corner of John’s mouth and grabbed his wrists, his grip surprisingly cold, pale skin pulled taut over white knuckles. John found himself limp in Sherlock’s arms as he laid him down on the red-carpeted floor, trembling and stuttering as he squirmed like a fish in the talons of an eagle.

 

“Sher- lock, Sherlock! Stop please, not here, this is going too far!”

 

The older man seemed markly unimpressed and rolled his hips against John’s eliciting yet another moan from the catcher. It felt so good in between John’s legs and the consistent contact was driving him insane. He silently yearned for them both to be naked as soon as possible for he wanted so badly to mark John as his own. Plus, not being a very religious man himself, Sherlock did not give as much as two shits about the fact that he was currently pinning his younger subordinate under him in a highly suggestive manner, right in front of the mural of Christ, the savior of the world, in one of the oldest, most respectable churches in the history of London. Hell, those carpets under them may be very well more than three times as old as he was. They both wanted this, Sherlock was certain, but John was just being too damn difficult. Oh well, by force it was then. Shoving two fingers in his senior’s mouth, he commanded,

 

“Suck.”

 

John gave a muffled sound of confusion and there was an awkward space of silence, Sherlock seated on top of John’s crotch, his long fingers and wide palm effortlessly holding both of John’s hands above his head while his other hand had two digits in John’s mouth. Sherlock swallowed hard and cleared his throat; if John wasn’t so turned on by his flustered and lustful stare, he would have probably run his fingers through Sherlock’s black curls and laughed his ass off. The perplexity scribbled across Sherlock’s countenance inspired uncontrollable mirth, but John somehow managed to keep it together.

 

“Listen, I don’t quite know how this works exactly... But the files on your computer have given me quite the idea of how to go about doing this, so please dear with me.”

 

John’s mouth opened to speak, his expression portraying embarrassment and slight irritation.

 

“Tharts da ith ime r charnd the harsword!”

 

Sherlock simply kissed the ridge above his younger partner’s eye and lands another on his forehead.

 

“Yes, I love you too John.”

 

John could hear his poor heart thumping against the bone of his chest, ringing in his ears. Those three words he’d thought would never leave the older’s lips, to neither male nor female, family nor friend. He soon found himself sucking Sherlock’s fingers like there was no tomorrow, tongue running over every slope and crevice to coat them in an even coat of saliva. He could taste the dust and paper on his skin, from the books he was reading back at the apartment. Unhygienic, yes, but sensually arousing was the fact that Sherlock was getting down and dirty, just for him. A slicken digit entered John’s bare walls and he cringed, fingers digging into Sherlock’s scalp as he fisted the unruly mop of charcoal black hair. He could feel the appendage poke around in his tight ring of muscle as he resisted lunging forward to bite down on Sherlock’s flawless skin, ‘let the older know the pain he was in’ was what his cruel brain thought.

 

“Being so tense isn’t helping. Watson. Please relax and make my life easier.”

 

Sherlock offered his neck to John as he leaned down and likes a stripe down his face and the younger accepts his ivory flesh like a wolf to fresh meat, biting and sucking the delicious surface of Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock hummed into another wet kiss and slides his other finger into John, earning yet another loud moan from his partner. He scissors John’s hole and rests his chest on John’s body, hand releasing John’s wrists and working down on the rubber of his boxers. Jointed fingers slid up and down the length of John’s manhood, clasping around the length with smooth, even pumps. John’s eyes flitting shut as he felt the familiar knot rise in his stomach. The younger’s free hands began to explore the smooth surface of Sherlock’s beautiful body, hands digging into his sides as they began to kiss harder, deeper. His fingers stroked the base of Sherlock’s throat, over the ridge of his collarbone as he arched off the floor and rocks back down hard against the detective’s hand. A whine rose low in John’s throat, demanding more than just attention. The pleasure he was experiencing was nothing short of amazing, and euphoria shook him to the core. Sherlock sighed into the crook of John’s neck, as if to show that he understood. John’s heart fluttered in his throat and he took a deep gasp for oxygen as Sherlock broke away from their heated kiss, low voice croaky as he whispered in the shell of the younger’s ear.

 

“John… John, John, John… You have no idea how tight you are… Be patient, love, and you will get your reward…”

 

“Sherlock I-“

 

The older male spread that trademark smirk across his face, thumb moving upwards to block John’s shaft. He flicked his finger back and forth on the surface, pre-cum leaking through the head of the throbbing member. John sucked in a labored breath and his eyes widened and his jaw goes slack, Sherlock’s bed-head moving down, down, down. A thin ring finger slid slowly into John’s tight ass and a cry of pain escaped John’s parted lips, breaths becoming more erratic as the seconds ticked by maliciously. Sherlock cupped John’s length with his hand, rubbing slowly as he licked the younger’s thighs, making John pull his legs up and allowing Sherlock to spread them apart. Those toned arms jointed, hands now on the milky white surface of the inside of John’s legs, elbows bent as his tongue teased the twitching manhood. John shuddered, relieved with the partial loss of pain to his lower body and now coursing with extreme pleasure, highlighted with occasional jerks of his lower half into Sherlock’s mouth. His lips encased the warmth of the throbbing length, cheeks hollowing and pulling deep. Calloused fingers looped through curls of dark hair pushing closer, closer, fore more and more.

 

“Sherlock- Sherlock! Sher- Jesus Christ… Ahha!”

 

His teeth graze the tender surface as if warning the younger to shut it. John took the hint and continues to just make jumbled sentences along the lines of ‘damn’ or the occasional ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’. Sherlock loved the way the litany of curses ran off John’s tongue like bullets from a machine gun, ricocheting off the walls of the church and ringing in his ears. Music, a sinful harmony, driving him to bob his head harder and devour John’s member, deep throating until the s›ticky pre-cum hit the back of his throat. The older gagged and hummed against John, feeling the small amount of liquid trickle down the insides of his throat, searing the bare muscle with a taste he longed for ever since he had first laid eyes on this astronomical individual. At that time he was so confused. They were just flatmates at first, nothing more. But then a friendship blossomed; and Sherlock learned that John cared, John cared a lot. John had saved him numerous times, John was there when he needed to think, John always said ‘ok’, even when he did not oblige to the ridiculous tasks that Sherlock had set forth before him. John made him coffee, John watched all night when he was sick with a dreadful fever, John knew how to calm him down. John knew exactly what to say when Sherlock was suffering with withdrawal from his nicotine patches, and Sherlock soon found out that he cared too, much more than he wanted to. And sometimes, Sherlock knew it would always be John who hides his nicotine patch supply, and he knew where they were (deducing from John’s darting eyes when questioned), but Sherlock finds himself wanting to throw a tantrum just to see John’s calm features, telling him to relax. This scared him. He didn’t know what was happening to him; quickened pulse, dilated pupils, symptoms of a fatal illness, the only flaw in the detective’s polished marble stature.

 

 

Every time he complains about being bored, releasing his cooped up frustrations on John, the younger always listened, assuring him that a new client and case would soon turn up. Even though Sherlock says he is unentertained, the truth was, he could easily sit through the entire day, just watching John type away about himself and the older on his blog. The way is fingers tapped noisily on the keyboard could send Sherlock into a trance, his brow furrowed and gaze set on the computer screen.

 

There had to be a justification behind the thrills that are positively running through him, an explanation for the way his heart plummeted and spiked with each choky breath the man before him took. It’s not that he was no longer nervous or uncertain, but the way John sounded, tasted, felt; he had forgotten moment to moment. Sherlock remembered then forgets, letting his body dictate all his movements in hopes that in higher reason, his superior logic wont speak up and trip him.

 

“Sherlock,” John began and was so grateful when he was given a pause.

 

“Don’t speak, please- later.” The tone of desperation that came with Sherlock’s plea shocked even the great thinker himself and served almost as if a gentle slap back into reality. Sherlock was here, now, holding him close and making him go insane, John thought; I’m dying.

 

“Sherlock- I’m dying…” John vocalized his inner thoughts and Sherlock hummed once more, mouth moving until John bottomed out yet again at the back of his throat. A few gentle sucks later, and Sherlock shucked him off,

 

“Oh no, John,” he says. “You are very much alive.”

 

From beneath mussed locks, Sherlock gave the closest thing to a coy smile that John had ever seen from the older male. John could not even relish that look on his face because as soon as the moment was over,  the smile soon flashed into the surroundings when John’s eyes rolled back to the edge of his skull. He gasped and squirmed uncomfortably, Sherlock burying himself deeper and deeper, inch-by-inch. The base of his palm presses flat against John’s stomach as he rocks forward gently, a sharp groan rising from his chest.

 

“Christ, dear god… Fuck, fuck,” John stuttered between cries of pain, fingers digging into the hollows on Sherlock’s back.

 

The contact to Sherlock was wet electric but it does nothing to compare to the feeling of John’s bare walls clamping wet and hot down his length. Sherlock very much enjoyed the whimpers escaping the younger and yet he felt the worry.

 

“Oh, uh- ha… I… Jeeeeeeesus,”

 

Comes the shiver up John’s spine and the hoarse cry put the older to a stop for a moment. John drew a hand over his face and put his world back on its axis.

 

“John…?”

 

Sherlock asked above him, hand wiping the fresh tears from John’s eyes, unbelievably passionate. Another breath, this time quick, through the spaces of his teeth and John shook it off, hands now pressed against Sherlock’s flustered face. He looked like he had been tossed by a whirlwind; black  hair messed up across his face. Colour high in his cheeks caused a stark contrast to the porcelain hue of his skin as John manages a weak stupor,

 

“Fine, it’s fine- I’m fine.”

 

This should have been too much. This should have been something that consumed him and terrified him, but Sherlock’s mind was oddly at peace with this step. Their gazes met, Sherlock’s knees on either side of John’s thighs, the younger’s legs hooked around his muscular waist. John felt Sherlock so close, the heat of a 9-inched monster lodged deep inside of him made him feel so congested inside, struggling to get used to Sherlock’s beast. His skin pricked with the sheen of sweat between their bodies, both their frames blazing hot and needing each other. Thumbs dipped into the nicks in Sherlock’s hips and John spared a moment just to look. Biceps to hairline to the tip of his chiseled nose, down to the subtle abs on his stomach to belly bone; John felt his mouth go dry. Lips parted, red and swollen.

 

“Move… Please,”

 

If there could be a moment of combustion, a moment when logic is no longer applicable, when there is no conscious thoughts, when all the cards fall and Sherlock’s trump card is played, it is then when Sherlock pulls out smoothly and thrusts back in, John not even bothering to stifle the moan and gasps that sang out of him. With no finesse, the older slides his body up and down against John, chest to chest, settling his lips against the other man’s.

 

“Oh God… Oh God- Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock-“

 

Came the words against Sherlock’s mouth, the man’s name recited like a mantra. Messy, lips and tongues and John essentially lost all ability to control the situation. Movement is slow and fired with passion; all John can focus on his skin-skin-skin and the way Sherlock’s hips pivot against his.

 

But it’s never enough. The feeling of their bodies fused as one; it’s not enough.

 

John draped his head against the side of Sherlock’s neck and the taller man ran his lips across the faint scars on John’s body, letting the younger grip his fingers tightly, hands curling up to grab the knuckles resting on top of his hand. Sherlock observed the way John’s mouth falls open with each gasp for air, the way his eyebrows rose and fell, as if anticipating the painful pleasure he was receiving beneath the older, the way his shoulders hitched with each loving push inside of him. Sherlock shimmied a little lower and encircled his tongue around John’s right nipple, stopping to let the younger catch his breath. John gives a weak smile after Sherlock makes him moan softly, the heavenly sound making Sherlock’s stomach do a flip.

 

“Bully…” John breathed. Sherlock chuckled desperately against damp skin and murmured in reply against John’s cheek.

 

“Hey… Am I a little too rough for you?”

 

His lips pulled up by their corners into a smile; one that john couldn’t help but run his thumb across. Their mouths fitted perfectly as Sherlock started up again, letting John feel every inch of him. Sighs turned into gasps and gasps formed moans, loud and unholy in the early light of the morning. Hands ran wild over soft, tender flesh and fingers pressed hard into milky white skin. The world had already blended into regularities, and there was just tongues, lips cock and heat and “John,” “Sherlock,” “ John,” “Sherlock, oh god Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” No one was sure who was sounding pleasurably the loudest and no one cared, John breathed Sherlock and Sherlock was providing what he needed to survive. Sherlock sped up and thrusted harder, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his prominent jawline, trying to find that special spot inside of John. The younger yelped loud and clung to Sherlock as a shot of mind-numbing pleasure filled his system and turned on the spotlights in his head, that bundle of nerves inside of him struck right in the middle by Sherlock’s manhood.

 

“Yes! Uh~ Hahaah! Sherlock please! Right there!”

 

A grunt in response and Sherlock had pulled John onto his lap, large hands digging into the younger’s sides. Their foreheads touched and their breaths ghosted each other’s faces, noses brushing as Sherlock sweeps a curl of blonde hair out of John’s eyes. A throaty laughter and meek tears spilling out of oppressive eyes; John was crying. Sherlock feels his body heat rise significantly and he whispered soothingly, silence suddenly flooding the room, besides the sound of their ragged breathing.

 

“Heavy is the heart who doesn’t find love, John… Please- please don’t cry.”

 

Sherlock tasted salt for the second time in the hour and John nods and manages to croak out,

 

“I know- I, I just can’t explain… I”

 

Lip to lip, scarlet to scarlet, Sherlock pecked him gently, hitting his prostate dead on and receiving a groan in return.

 

“Shhh… If I don’t need anything to go on, why should you? Just know that I’m here… And, and I really, really like you, John…”

 

“ Fuck Sherlock… Please, faster! I can’t- I’m, I’m going to come-“

 

Thrusts on Sherlock’s lap, gravity proving its existence as John bounces hard against Sherlock’s length. The sinful harmony of skin slapping skin, Sherlock’s amazing fingers tracing the vein running thick and purple along the base of John’s manhood. Slick and slippery, hot and panting, John’s stomach twists into a knot and he did not even have time to choke out a warming. He comes so hard in Sherlock’s hand, feeling dizzy and weak with fatigue, eyes half lidded as liquid white trails down along fingers and coats both their belly bones in cum. Sherlock looks appalled, confused to say the least, but that smile doesn’t leave his lips as he continues to lift John up and back down again, spurring him forward with butterfly kisses and soft calls of his name. As he thrusts upward to meet John’s movements, he lifts up the younger’s chin and listens as he sighs and moans with pleasure.

 

“Look at me, John,” Sherlock utters breathlessly, blue-green eyes cat-like and reflective under the soft light.

 

Misty-blue eyes meet turquoise and Sherlock indicates a series of loving kisses, laying the exhausted young boy back down on the floor as he goes faster, harder, stronger. John tips his head back and wails with abandon, hearing Sherlock telling him that he was so beautiful, so amazing, so fantastic. Sherlock’s taste, smell, and touch was so overwhelming, skillful fingers effortlessly forcing out fresh spurts of semen without even his own first release. John’s hands held on as if it was the ride of his life, legs tucked up as Sherlock rocked in and out, back and forth. His short nails dug into Sherlock’s chest, back neck hair arms side- everywhere, kissing when he could, sucking hard if he could last long enough without gasping for breath. Their eyes were locked on each other, lost in their sea of passionate lovemaking; drowning. John tastes Sherlock’s sweat and it felt like heaven on his tongue. The string of incoherent sentences rises forth again, and they both hum into another deep-throated, wet and hot kiss, lips already red from all that friction. Sherlock’s muscles scream in pain, telling him to stop, but John hold him close and begs like a kicked puppy;

 

“Please, Sherlock… More, Sherlock…”

 

He tries but soon slows, feeling the virgin walls close tight around his member. He pans and shudders but continues to go on, determined to hold it back for as long as possible. He never wanted this to end, he wanted to go forever and hear John scream his name over and over again.

 

“J-John… I’m coming!”

 

Sherlock gives a warning and begins to pull out, but John is so much quicker. He bucks up against Sherlock’s hips and cupped his face with his hands, eyes gleaming with that soft, gentle and kind gaze that Sherlock knew all too well.

 

“No… Come inside me Sherlock… Mark me down…. Make me yours, please….”

 

And so he does, John’s name on his lips as he bucks in once, twice, and he spills over, riding off his erection before lying down beside the younger, tired, exhausted. Sherlock’s white cum still dripping from his body, John swipes a shaky finger across his body and puts it in his mouth. Sherlock watches, eyes wide.

 

“You’re delicious…”

 

John’s eyes crinkle in happiness as he laughs at Sherlock’s bewildered expression, curling up into a trembling ball in Sherlock’s heaving chest and slotting their knuckles together. Contentment. That’s what Sherlock feels and for once in his life, he realises that love, (with John only,) was a beautiful thing, no explanation needed. John looks up at the mural of Jesus Christ painted on the ceiling of the church and chuckles; music to the violinist’s ears.

 

“Christ forgive us, we are going to hell…”

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile wildly, drawing circles on John’s back with his thumb as he kissed the bottom lobe of his left ear.

 

“Problem?”

 

“Yes,” John huffs, voice laced with slight agitation as he turns to face the older, eyes darkening as his face grew hot again.

 

“You violated me before his very eyes, right beside the podium of his father’s kingdom on Earth, right beside a coffin that used to hold a Christian high priest who had passed on, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock bursts into laughter; hand tightening its grip on John’s hand as they both snuggles against one another, sharing their amusement at this statement. John remains awfully quiet after that and he closes his eyes, breathing soft and angelic.

 

“John?” Sherlock starts, weight propped up on one level of his right arm as he faces John, a thin finger smoothening the loose hair across his forehead.

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“If I were to call you a punctuation mark… Do you know what you will be?”

 

A shrug of the shoulders indicated a ‘no’.

 

“An ellipsis;”

 

A small smile pled on John’s swollen lips and he opened his eyes, lashes fluttering. Now it was time for Sherlock’s chest to swell with warmth, filtering out in a smirk of his own as John tilted his head to face him. Those misty eyes were searching his for an explanation, to understand, to decipher. But Sherlock did not feel unnerved for once in his life because this was John Watson, and he trusted him.

 

“It’s because you seem to always trail off in thought sometimes, and you are slow to make decisions… Informal punctuation.”

 

A tinkling sort of laughter spills from his lips, like bells, so seemingly unreal and inhuman. John. His John.

 

“Isn’t that what you are for? To use your brain and get us out of tight spots- what use of you for my help in those matters?”

 

“NO,” Sherlock’s forehead creased and his tone was serious. “Don’t ever say that I don’t need you, John,” His hand places John’s on his heart and he takes the other and kisses the digits one by one, eyes all the time fixated on the boy next to him.

 

“Because you are the ellipsis of my life, the reason for my continuation on his dreadful planet, without you, my life would have come to an end. I would have been a period.”

 

A Pregnant silence, before they both double over at their shared mirth, Sherlock’s deep baritone a sharp contrast with John’s somewhat feminine tenor.

 

 

“But you always understand, that’s why sometimes I feel it just doesn’t need to be said. So that’s why it takes me so long to say something…”

 

Their gazes meet for one last moment- an air of light awkwardness still lingering of course. It’s not simply going to fall into place because they just had sex, because they are raw and bonded. This was one of the things that needed to be said, but perhaps not needed to explain. John thinks hard about this, frenzied. His chest heaves with everything, emotional, the overwhelming totality of what he feels for one man. But there is not time, no time before Sherlock kisses him and he melts, forgetting everything all over again.

 

“Your thoughts are deafening. IT’s brilliant, but stop.”

 

“You’re brilliant.”

 

Sherlock says nothing more and gives him a sharp nod, reaching out to touch John’s hip and closes his eyes. John glances up at the beautiful man lying next to him, ivory skin soft to the touch, long lashes and sky-high cheekbones. It feels completely wonderful lying next to him, snuggles into his side, feeling Sherlock’s fingertips curl into his hip. He was a mystery of surprise, mood swings and streaks of man-child insanity, danger and with an air of confidence. And John was his quiet partner, Doctor Watson, the wise one, with emotions and a heart of gold, sharp and intelligent, but slow with his words. They made up each other; one was what the other was lacking exactly in character and personality, like two lost puzzle pieces, finally fitting together. John closes his tired eyes and smiles when Sherlock rolls over to grab his morning coat and drapes it across his frame. Yup. That was his Sherlock; silently caring in his own way. John was determined to unravel this Interrobang and draw out that hidden individual inside Sherlock. Through ellipses, hyphens to inverted commas, John was going to try.

 

Then again, they both preferred the informalities.

 

-The End-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my work! leave comments cuz i love reading them and also, please tell me if u see any errors! Love and kudos and hits and stuff are all appreciated and i Thank you once again! I'm new here so Please support me and let me know if you guys want more of this series! Much appreciated! working on the second part now...


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